The Zam Coup

Naming a baby sounds like it should be sweet.

It is not.

It's a negotiation with a hospital deadline.

My wife and I aren't great at this kind of thing. We don't glide into agreement. We don't sit at the kitchen table with tea and say, "Let's find something that honors both of our souls." We're more like two separate governments with a disputed border.

That's not all of our marriage. But it's the naming-a-child part. And the furniture part. And the vacation-planning part. And the where-does-this-thing-go-in-the-garage part.

So when there's something I actually want, I know better than to just say I want it. That's rookie work. You float ideas, pretend you don't care, and let someone else say the thing you secretly want, so it shows up clean, with none of your fingerprints on it.

This isn't dishonest. It's survival.

When Raven was on the way, we started going through names. My wife kept suggesting names that I'm almost sure came from Harry Potter. I can't prove that. I don't know enough Harry Potter girl names to walk into court and swear to it. But they all had that same feeling. A little British. A little fancy. A little like the baby would come out wearing a wool coat and correcting my pronunciation of "scone." They sounded like names that would be delivered by owl.

I hated all of them. Not in a thoughtful, open-minded way. In a fast, internal, no-chance way.

The problem was that my names weren't doing any better. I'd suggest something, and it'd die in the air between us. It didn't even get a hearing. It just dropped onto the floor like a bird hitting a window.

After a while, I realized the issue wasn't only the names.

It was me.

A name has to arrive from the right person. In our house, I wasn't that person. If I suggested a name, it came pre-loaded with all my other bad opinions. My wife could reject the name and me at the same time, which I'm sure saved energy.

Then my daughter Alexa saved me. She brought up Raven. And there it was.

I'd always loved that name, but I'd forgotten about it. The second she said it, I remembered. It had weight and some edge, pretty without being soft. It sounded like someone who might write poetry, keep secrets, and win a knife fight if things got weird.

Most importantly, my wife didn't hate it. That was the opening. And I'm convinced she didn't hate it because Alexa said it, not me.

That distinction matters. An idea from me is suspicious. An idea from one of the kids might be innocent, pure, and possibly sent by angels.

So I played it cool. I couldn't say, "Yes. Raven. Perfect. We're done. Shut down the committee." That would've ruined it.

My enthusiasm would've contaminated the name. So I acted like Raven was fine. Good enough. Maybe not my first choice, who knows, but something I could live with under the right circumstances. Inside, I was already ordering the tiny black cape.

But I needed something else. I needed the middle name.

I'd lost this battle once before. When Alexa was born, my wife wanted Nicole as the middle name. I went along with it. I still regret that.

Not because Nicole is bad. Nicole is fine. That's actually the problem. It's too fine. It's a perfectly normal middle name. It sounds like we were tired and had to write something on the hospital form before they let us leave.

Middle names are where you can do some damage. First names have to survive school, job applications, wedding invitations, and little kids who can smell weakness. Middle names can carry a story, or be strange, or be where a dad sneaks one small flag into the family record.

So I told my wife I could accept Raven if I got the middle name. This was, of course, nonsense. I'd have accepted Raven under almost any conditions. Raven Marie. Raven Susan. Raven Please-Don't-Let-This-Turn-Into-A-Harry-Potter-Name. But I needed leverage.

Then the name came to me.

Zam.

I loved it immediately. Zam isn't a middle name. Zam is a sound effect. Zam is a superhero walking into the frame. Zam is what appears on the screen right before a villain gets kicked through a wall. It was short, weird, and impossible to make boring.

Even better, I had an actual argument for it. My wife is from Zamboanga del Sur, on Mindanao in the Philippines. So Zam wasn't just me putting a comic-book noise on a birth certificate. It was heritage, homage, culture.

That was the official pitch. Zam, from Zamboanga. Very respectful. And also, obviously, awesome.

Somehow, she went for it. I didn't ask too many follow-up questions. When a door opens like that, you don't stand there explaining your full criminal plan. You walk through quietly.

So Raven became Raven Zam. I'd done it. I'd gotten Raven. I'd gotten Zam. I'd avoided the owl-name problem, honored my wife's home province in a way that was technically true, and given my daughter a name that sounded like she might secretly have powers.

Nobody gives you a trophy for that.

They should.

Two years later, Alexander was born. This is where a lesser man might've retired undefeated.

I didn't.

By then, Zam had been sitting there in the family record getting better every time I thought about it. Raven Zam. It still felt like I'd pulled something off.

And once you have one Zam, a second Zam starts to make sense in a way that'd sound insane to anyone outside the house. One Zam is a tribute. Two Zams is a doctrine.

So I made the case again, only faster this time. Zamboanga. Family connection. Strong sound. Works for a boy. Works for a girl. Already established precedent. That last part mattered. It wasn't some new weird thing I was springing on the family. It was tradition now. A young tradition, with exactly one previous example. But tradition.

And somehow, again, she went for it. Alexander Zam. That's when I knew I'd pulled off the coup of all coups.

There are dads who build decks. There are dads who coach teams. There are dads who know how to fix a toilet without watching six YouTube videos first.

I got two Zams. That's my achievement.

The best part is that they don't really know yet. Not in the full sense. They know their names, but they don't understand what happened. They don't know that buried in the middle of their official identities is one of my greatest acts of stealth parenting. You don't announce a coup while the regime is still technically in power.

So for now, I just carry it around privately. Raven Zam. Alexander Zam. My two Zams.

I have plans, of course. Both of them are going to do wrestling walkouts someday to "I Am Iron Zam." I don't know when. I don't know where. I only know it has to happen. They'll come stomping out in tiny shoes, maybe confused, maybe furious, while I lose my mind like an announcer at a 1980s wrestling show.

If you don't believe me, go play "Iron Man" by Black Sabbath. Start it at five seconds. Let it run to about thirty-five. That's the walkout. The song's already there. Ozzy just sings the wrong last word.

I'm expecting state titles out of both Iron Zams the same season — the one year their careers overlap. Raven goes first, because she's older and more dangerous. Alexander goes right behind her, because there is no way on earth he lets himself finish second at anything called Zam.

And the shirts are already decided.

The first one stacks down the front:

I AM
ZAM

The second one gives Alexander his word:

I AM
ZAM
TOO

That's not a joke. That's family infrastructure.

Someday they'll ask why they both have the same strange little middle name. I'll tell them the official story, because the official story is true enough. It comes from Zamboanga. It connects them to their mom's place in the world. It sounded strong.

And when they're ready, I'll tell them the rest — the savage work it took to land them one of the best middle names in history.

Two Zams.

I am Zam.

I am Zam Too.

Put it on the shirts.